


tell me you can’t bear a room that i’m not in

by cakesnake, nosecoffee



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 5 +1, Alcohol Abuse, Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Comedy, Desperate Gothic Heroine Love, Dialogue Heavy, Fluff, Getting Together, Multi, Pining, Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-03 01:12:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16316267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakesnake/pseuds/cakesnake, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nosecoffee/pseuds/nosecoffee
Summary: "Did you think I was funny? The thing I said - the horse thing?""Um," Enjolras glances at the open door. "Sure.""'Cause I don't thinkhedid." The guy continues, pushing away from the wall with an unsteady arm."Well," Enjolras wonders who this guy is, wonders when he's going to leave so Enjolras can piss and go back to his conversation with Courfeyrac and Combeferre. "I don't think any guy wants to be told he doesn't know how to use his dick while he's - making out?”(5 Conversations Between Enjolras and Grantaire That Don't Matter and 1 That Does)





	tell me you can’t bear a room that i’m not in

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Human" by Dodie

As far as he knows, the bathroom is empty when he walks in. It doesn't occur to him to check the shower, before heading towards the toilet.

 

Enjolras is about to unzip his pants when he hears a wet noise and the words, "Dude, you have the sexual prowess of a horse."

 

His head snaps up and he looks behind him, where the shower curtain surrounding the bathtub is drawn. There's another wet noise, sounding suspiciously of mouth on skin, and another voice, from behind the shower curtain says, "What?"

 

"I just mean," says the first voice, and Enjolras wonders if he should throw them out or leave them to it. "You're fantastically well endowed, but I truly believe you have no idea what you're doing with it."

 

There's a huff and a thump, and the second voice says, "I'm going home."

 

"Is that an invitation?" The shower curtain is yanked open and Enjolras jumps in surprise as a tall man with a nose ring and slicked back hair stalks past, zipping up his skinny jeans. It's Bahorel, and he goes a bit pink when he recognises Enjolras, but doesn't slow his pace.

 

The man left behind in the bathtub looks incredibly drunk, pressed into the tiled corner, and blinking quickly at Enjolras. He licks his lips. "How long have you been standing there?" The man asks, and blinks his owlish brown eyes at him.

 

Enjolras shrugs, awkwardly, "Thirty seconds, at most."

 

"Right," the guy nods, his dark curls getting crushed against the wall, "did you think I was funny? The thing I said - the horse thing?"

 

"Um," Enjolras glances at the open door. "Sure."

 

"'Cause I don't think  _ he _ did." The guy continues, pushing away from the wall with an unsteady arm.

 

"Well," Enjolras wonders who this guy is, wonders when he's going to leave so Enjolras can piss and go back to his conversation with Courfeyrac and Combeferre. "I don't think any guy wants to be told he doesn't know how to use his dick while he's - making out?”

 

"Yeah." The guy nods.

 

Enjolras doesn't know where to go from there. "Yeah."

 

"Sure. I guess." He climbs out of the bathtub and squints around the bathroom. "Is this your house?"

 

"No." He replies, flatly.

 

The guy frowns. "Actually it might be  _ mine _ ." He spins to look at the light blue shower curtain. "I recognise this shower curtain."

 

It's a pretty ordinary shower curtain, Enjolras kind of doubts it is this guys house, unless he's Grantaire, Joly's mythical roommate.

 

"If it were your house, why were you making out in the  _ shower _ ?" Enjolras asks the guy who may or may not be Grantaire.

 

"Why not?" The guy asks, with a crooked, almost charming smile. He looks very unsteady. "I mean, how many times do you get to make out in a shower in your life?"

 

Enjolras kind of wants to reach out and sit this guy down on the edge of the bathtub. "It's kind of an easy place to make out, I'll admit. I'm sure there are more adventurous places to make out with a stranger at a house party."

 

The guy points at Enjolras, with a look that says  _ I like you, _ "You could be right."

 

They stand there, for a minute, awkwardly.

 

Enjolras clears his throat, eventually, and glances at the door. "I need to-"

 

The guys eyes widen. "Oh, sorry, I'll just head out."

 

The guy closes the door behind him as he stumbles out. Enjolras doesn't see him again by the time he leaves with Courfeyrac and Combeferre in drunken tow, but that doesn't mean he doesn't look.

  
~

 

Grantaire wakes up when someone kicks his shin. He lurches upwards in pain and immediately hits his head on the underside of Joly's beloved grand piano. "Ow,  _ fuck _ ." He swears, commando crawling with one arm out from under the piano. Joly is standing above him, arms crossed, looking amused but unimpressed. Grantaire squints up at him.

 

"Did you kick me?" He asks, accusingly.

 

Joly raises an eyebrow at him, deftly replying, "Did you do a keg stand and make out with Bahorel in the shower until you told him he didn't know how to use his dick?"

 

Grantaire collapses on the floor and stares up at the ceiling and the upside down vision of Joly. "That sounds like something I'd do, so I'm gonna say yes." He agrees, an arm draped over his eyes.

 

"This is why-" Joly begins, in a reprimanding tone, and then groans, "where did you even get a keg?"

 

"I didn't." Grantaire refutes. "The Vietnamese dude with the nose ring brought it."

 

" _ Bahorel _ ?" The name rings a bell and Grantaire pulls his arm from his eyes and squints at the ceiling, again.

 

"Oh yeah," he clicks his fingers, almost sitting up before remembering the pain in his head, "that's why I was making out with him. Anyone who encourages alcohol abuse is a friend of mine."

 

"Friends don't usually comment on their friends dicks." Joly says to him, exasperated.

 

"So I'm not a great friend." Grantaire tells him as Joly taps his foot on the carpet. "That's no surprise."

 

Joly sighs, walking into the kitchen. "If I were a good friend I would have forced you into an AA meeting, by now."

 

"You're still a good friend." Grantaire retorts, pushing himself upright, the smell of fresh coffee more than welcoming in his hungover mind.

 

"Tell that to your liver." Joly says, pointedly.

 

Grantaire stumble sto his feet and leans on the piano for supports and he massages his temple with two fingers. "My liver can fuck right off." He mutters.

 

"See, that's the words of a guy with severe alcoholism." Jolly points at him, accusingly, over the breakfast bar, and pours two mugs of coffee.

 

"Probably." He agrees, sitting on one of the breakfast bar stools, and cradling the coffee mug in his hands like something precious.

 

There's a long silence between them as they both drink deeply and slip into Sunday morning ease. "When you die, I'm gonna feel so bad." Joly comments, suddenly.

 

"What makes you think  _ I'll _ die first?" Grantaire replies, with a frown.

 

"Do the words 'alcohol poisoning' ring any bells?" Musichetta asks, yawning, as she emerges from Joly’s bedroom. Grantaire can't imagine Bossuet is ready to awaken yet, which is why Musichetta only pours one mug.

 

"Ooh, yeah, they do.” Grantaire tells her, when she leans over to kiss Joly on the cheek. “So, tell me, what else did I do last night that I should feel embarrassed about?"

 

"Let's see,” Joly sighs, relaxing into Musichetta when she wraps her arms around his waist, “you did the keg stand, tried to hold a karaoke gig in my bedroom, drunk texted Eponine seven times, made out with Bahorel, by all accounts had a very awkward conversation with Enjolras in the bathroom, went streaking, and then fell asleep under the piano."

 

Grantaire nearly spits his coffee out over the breakfast bar. He only narrowly avoids it. "Wait, I talked to Enjolras?" He asks, once his mouth is clear.

 

"That's the part you're focusing on?” Musichetta asks, bewildered. “You're not concerned about the streaking?"

 

"’Chetta, sweetheart, at that point, there were two people at the party who hadn't seen my dick, at most."

 

“God, that's a disturbing thing to hear you say.” Joly shudders, and takes a sip,of his coffee.

 

“What can I say?” He says with a grin. “I have a wild lifestyle.” 

 

"I hate you." Joly says with conviction.

 

"No you don't." ‘Taire counters with a knowing smirk.

 

"No I don't." He shakes his head into his coffee, as though he wishes he did.

 

"The only reason I'm so focused on talking to Enjolras is because I've never met your fearless leader before, and now his first impression of me will always be the drunk embarrassment who just had a bad make out in the shower." Grantaire just about shudders at the thought. 

 

"It's not like you stripped naked and jumped into a fountain in front of him." Musichetta comments, beginning to pour another mug, which he guesses means Bossuet will soon be among the living once more.

 

"Honestly, the way I met Eponine has nothing on the way I met Enjolras." He informs her, seriously.

 

"I'm sure he won't even remember it.” Joly assures him. “Enjolras doesn't come to parties all that often, so who knows, he might have been astrally projecting while you were drunkenly rambling at him."

 

"God, I hope so." Grantaire comments, and closes his eyes.

 

~

 

2.

 

The Musain is unusually empty for a Friday night, especially given the fact that it sits on the edge of the university campus. Usually there would be at least seventy five drunk eighteen year olds with fake ID’s wandering through the bar. Grantaire is sad for the lack of entertainment. Teenagers having their first experience under the influence are always hilarious, being the only person tipsy in the whole place is a bit of a downer.

 

There’s a flash of familiar blonde hair in the back room, and fuck, Tipsy Grantaire can apparently not control his impulses, because he’s moving toward that door like a man possessed, despite all of Musichetta’s protests. 

 

Grantaire doesn’t know why he wants to see Enjolras, especially after their awkward first meeting, but there he is, in all of his godly glory, staring frustratedly down at a poli-sci textbook. He looks up in shock.

 

“It's you.” Enjolras says after a moment.

 

Surprised, Grantaire responds, “It's me.”

 

There’s a pause, and, by god, it’s awkward, and all Grantaire can think of is that stupid final scene in Sleepless in Seattle. And then it slips out of his mouth: “You saw me in the street?”

 

“Who even references Sleepless in Seattle?” Enjolras mutters with an eye roll.

 

He grins at him, and sits down in the empty seat beside him. “So you admit, you get the reference!” He crows, happily.

 

“I never denied it,” his annoyed companion grits out, “I'm just saying it's a shit movie.”

 

“It is.” Grantaire agrees, and smiles, leaning his chin on his fist.

 

Enjolras is silent then, glancing down at his work for a moment, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, maybe away from Grantaire, or maybe away from the work. He looks like he could use a good night's sleep. Maybe a few. 

 

Honestly, Enjolras looks like he would go for a coma.

 

It’s starting to become too awkward to sit there in silence, looking at a man who was clearly starting to regret talking to him. “So you recognise me, huh?” Grantaire asks, and kicks the leg of the table, softly, just for something to do. Gosh, he could go for another drink, right about now, but he knows Musichetta’s under strict orders from Joly to cut him off after three drinks, and Grantaire’s probably already surpassed that limit.

 

Well meaning friends are the  _ worst _ .

 

“Yeah. From Joly’s party, a week ago, right? You said Bahorel didn't know how to use his own dick.” If Grantaire hadn’t known Enjolras better (okay, not  _ better _ , everything he really knows about Enjolras is hearsay from their mutual friends), he would think that he’s amused by what was said in that bathroom. But he knows (about) Enjolras, and he knows the marble man is hardly ever amused by anything. 

 

Instead, Grantaire feigns distress, “I hate that that's how people know me. It's gonna be engraved on my grave stone, isn't it?” Enjolras frowns at this statement, but Grantaire continues on, unperturbed, “‘Here lies Grantaire, frequent alcoholic, streaker, said Bahorel didn't know how to use his own dick. He will be missed, by, like, a third of the people he knew.’”

 

“So, you  _ are _ Grantaire?” The tone in Enjolras’ voice is something close to victorious, which is a change from the bland, annoyed tone from before.

 

“Ah, so my reputation precedes me,” Grantaire smiles, and then thinks about what that might entail. “What have you been told?” 

 

Enjolras frowns a little, as though choosing his words carefully, “Well, if it makes you feel any better, they all agree you could drink anyone under the table.”

 

Grantaire is starting to seriously consider the AA meetings Joly suggested. “Ah, well… that’s accurate, and probably my least charming quality. I should really get around to actually building a personality instead of letting the alcohol do it for me.”

 

“Having a crisis?” Enjolras prompts, eyes back on his book.

 

“Of sorts.” Grantaire shrugs, and glances over his shoulder. “I think my friends are planning an intervention. Trying to get me sober, which is a noble task, I'll admit.”

 

“I don't think I've ever seen you sober.”

 

Grantaire laughs, “Well, this is only the second time we’ve met.”

 

Enjolras’s eyes do not lift from his book, and his voice is devoid of humour, “Have you considered picking up a less damaging hobby?”

 

“What, like stamp collecting?” He asks, snorting at the notion.

 

“Maybe.” Enjolras shrugs, an apparent encouragement to explore his options. “We all have our vices, I suppose, yours just happens to also be an addiction.”

 

Grantaire had not considered that among his friend’s fearless leaders worst qualities, a lack of compassion would be counted. He has a feeling that Enjolras is judging him quite harshly, and it makes him feel indignant, although he agrees. 

 

“Really read people by their covers, huh?” He asks, trying not to sound hurt.

 

“You haven't said anything tonight that could convince me otherwise.” Enjolras replies.

 

“I guess. What would you suggest?” Grantaire questions, partly trying to make a point, partly for actual pointers to where he should place the energy he puts into drinking. 

 

“Well, political activism has always held my attention quite well.”

 

Grantaire just about snorts at the implication he might have anything to do with politics, “I'm an anarchist.”

 

He can hear the eye roll from the other side of the table. “Of  _ course _ you are.”

 

“Not my field of interest unfortunately. Might just go back to drinking.” He shrugs.

 

“You do that.”

 

And that’s jarring. As many self deprecating jokes as he’s made, and there have been  _ so _ many, his friends have always tried to assure him that what he thinks of himself isn’t true. Now, Grantaire knows he shouldn’t rely on others to create his identity, but someone seemingly not giving a shit about him, that strikes him to the very centre of his being.

 

“You're not even going to try and stop me?”

 

“Why should I? You obviously have no regard for your own safety, why should I?” Enjolras still doesn’t look him in the eyes, turning a page, making mindless notes. Grantaire head spins.

 

“I've no idea, just kinda thought you'd be the Good Samaritan in this case.” He stutters out.

 

“You're making your own decisions, that's hardly my responsibility.” Enjolras shrugs. 

 

There’s silence between them. Grantaire’s world is spinning as he suddenly discovers that maybe he can not rely on others to care for him when he will not. 

 

“I'll see you ‘round, Enjolras.” He says weakly. 

 

“Sure you will.”

 

~

 

Courfeyrac is lying on the floor behind him. “And you just let him go?”

 

“What else was I supposed to do?” Enjolras replies, really sick of this conversation. Ever since Grantaire left to go back to his friend's, he has felt a little guilty for being so callous and blunt, but now Courf is really rubbing it in. “He clearly knows what he's doing, and doesn't care that it's harmful, so who am I to intervene?”

 

“I dunno,” comments Combeferre from where he's lying, upside down in his chair, “a good person?” Courfeyrac laughs.

 

Enjolras shoots him a dangerous look, and Combeferre bursts out laughing, too. “Once again, not my job. I'm not his babysitter.” Enjolras grates out, annoyed.

 

“And you're not ours, either, and yet you still drag us home when we’re sloshed.” Courfeyrac says, from the floor.

 

“That's different.” Enjolras protests. “You're my roommates, and my friends. I've known you forever. If I left you alone like this, I'd be afraid you'd walk into the street and get hit by a car.”

 

“And Grantaire is different because he's not your roommate, you haven't known him forever, and he's not your friend?” Combeferre asks in a  _ just checking  _ tone, counting out the reasons on his fingers.

 

“I suppose.”

 

“That's not very fair of you, I think.” Courf says, frowning.

 

Enjolras turns all the way around in his chair to look at them both, properly. “If I took care of every damningly charming alcoholic who wandered into my study space, I'd basically be running my own AA meetings.”

 

“Damningly charming, huh?” ‘Ferre waggles his eyebrows at him, and Courf bursts into giggles. 

 

Enjolras puts his face in his hands. They're infuriating when they've been drinking. “I'm gonna hope you're drunk enough that you won't remember I said that, in the morning.” He mumbles.

 

“You're gonna be sorely disappointed, Enj.” ‘Ferre informs him, cheekily, and then holds his arms out to him, making grabby hands. “Now, take me home before I fall asleep and you have to drag me down the stairs to the car.”

 

And Enjolras may be known to be a man without feeling, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t laugh affectionately at that.

 

~

 

3.

 

Water is boring. Soft drinks are boring. Bars are bloody boring. Grantaire is a little resentful that his friends decided they ought to meet at the Musain.

 

Why not at a café, or a park, somewhere where he might not be tempted to douse himself in drink? Instead Musichetta has created a sickly sweet pink concoction she promises is alcohol free with a genuine but pitying smile, and he is watching Enjolras give an impassioned speech on the state of healthcare, and the need for it’s reform.

 

And he’s finding, to his chagrin, that he agrees with his points.

 

He wants more than anything to have something to heckle his Apollo about. 

 

But he’s  _ fucking right _ . And it’s frustrating.

 

“Does that taste good?” Someone asks, to his right, and Grantaire jumps, nearly spilling his pink almost-lemon, lime, and bitters ( _ sans _ bitters) all over himself. That someone, to his right, is Enjolras, fresh off his podium, at the front of the room.

 

“No,” Grantaire replies, recovering quickly from the shock of zoning out while being frustrated that Enjolras has such convincing opinions, and a good turn of phrase and pretty hair and a nice mouth, and god it would be less embarrassing to be thinking this shit if he was drunk, but he's sober, and drooling over this guy who won't give him the time of day.

 

Enjolras frowns at him, and then at Musichetta, further down the bar, sweet-talking Bossuet into ordering something. “Then why are you drinking it?” He asks, taking the empty barstool beside Grantaire for himself. He's a lot less wound up, today, a lot less distracted and apathetic. Grantaire decides he likes high-on-successful-speech-making Enjolras.

 

He shrugs, and takes another sip, “For something to do.” If that doesn't sound like something an alcoholic would say, he doesn't know what does, his mind screams. And his mind would be right.

 

“Are you drunk?” Enjolras asks, suddenly, a reproachful look in his eye, and Grantaire sighs, putting aside his cocktail glass.

 

“God, I wish. Unfortunately no. I'm a week sober, now. My friend's held that long-awaited intervention, and Éponine smashed all my glasses and drank all my vodka.” He laughs a little at that. 

 

The glass smashing had, of course, come after the vodka drinking. He had tried to reason with her, that any number of liquids that weren’t alcohol could be held in those glasses, but she’d just giggled to herself and muttered ‘ _ waterinyourhands _ ’ and continued on her destructive path.

 

“Don't you live with Joly?” Enjolras asks, rightly confused.

 

“Yes. He was fucking pissed when he found out what she'd done.” Grantaire tells him seriously, because he doesn't think Joly has quite forgiven ‘Ponine for forcing them all to invest in new sets of glasses, and mugs that she'd shattered for good measure. “She also auctioned off all my good whiskey, and I'm forbidden to hold any house parties that involve wild drinking.”

 

“Wow. That's quite an intervention they held.”

 

“They had a lot of time to plan it, I suspect they didn't want anything to go wrong.”

 

“Sounds like it. Can I buy you something non-alcoholic that tastes better?” Enjolras offers, with a seemingly genuine smile, and for the love of all that is holy, his cheeks are still tinged red from the speech making, and how is Grantaire supposed to refuse?

 

“Are you flirting, O Fearless Leader?” He says, instead, reverting to sarcasm to save the day, so he doesn't melt into an embarrassing pile of heart eyes right here and now.

 

“I think the term is  _ being considerate _ , but believe what you like.” Enjolras chuckles, and rolls his eyes.

 

“You can buy me a Shirley Temple, if you like.” Musichetta grins at him, from across the bar, shooting him a thumbs up, so he flips her off, subtly, and goes back to smiling at Enjolras, who smiles back, politely.

 

Enjolras buys him three Shirley Temples across the night, and Grantaire buys him two vanilla Cokes in return. It's the first time in his life that he's not drunk, but later he can't remember what was said. He thinks maybe Enjolras was flirting, despite their disastrous previous meetings, but maybe Grantaire just caught him in a good mood, or maybe he just caught him in a bad one, last time.

 

Grantaire doesn't know, he just kind of rolls with the punches, and watches where he he steps.

 

~

 

So maybe he's in a good mood on the way home, and on the way to bed, and maybe that's why Combeferre and Courfeyrac exchange knowing looks in the car, but don't say anything until they're safely at home.

 

Enjolras doesn’t think about why that may be, apart from knowing he made a good speech tonight. But ‘Ferre and Courf saw how his eyes lit up, talking to R. They know, even if he doesn’t. 

 

He doesn’t even complain about thin walls the next morning, and they find themselves afraid he’s been switched out for a pod-person as he hums while making coffee. 

 

“Marius said he'd pop over later, he got a petition all written up-” Enjolras tells them from across the counter, curling his palms to not the warmth of his mug, his hair askew, curls floating about his head like a halo in a way he could never replicate himself.

 

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes, “Ugh, that's just code for ‘Cosette came over and wrote up a petition for him because he batted his eyelashes at her-’”

 

“They  _ both _ do  _ plenty _ of eyelash batting-” Enj argues.

 

“I'm pretty sure it's code for ‘sex, and then she corrected his grammar on the draft and helped him write up the good copy’.”

 

“Don't make me think about that.”

 

“Sometimes I'm afraid that boy is gonna go too far one day, and her father will run him over with a steamroller.” Combeferre interrupts, with his serious tone. 

 

They all shiver. It’s common knowledge that Mister Fauchevelant is not a man you want to cross, especially when it comes to his daughter. Marius’ fate will always be uncertain when he’s hanging around Cosette. 

 

“Whatever, Marius is coming ‘round later, so brace yourselves for that.”

 

Courf groans, and rouses himself from his seat to get dressed, but pauses in the hall to look back at Enjolras. “Have fun with R last night?”

 

Enj pauses at that, mouth resting on the lip of his mug. He takes a sip and looks at Courfeyrac consideringly. “It was certainly less awkward than the last couple of conversations I’ve had with him, if that’s what you mean, thanks in no small part to the lack of alcohol, I have no doubt.”

 

Combeferre lifts his head. “Doubt it. Grantaire is simply an acquired taste I think. The drinking merely amplifies his sour attributes.”

 

Enjolras seems to shake that off. “I have no doubt that Cosette will make an appearance if Marius plans to be here, so go and freshen up, ‘Ferre, we don’t want to offend her into never coming back. She and Marius seem to be quite taken with each other. I’d hate to be the reason they part ways.”

 

“As if,” Courf chimes in, “‘Oh Marius, you know I love you from your freckles to your threadbare clothes, but your friends are far too much for my delicate sensibilities!’ She’d not some shrinking violet from the nineteenth century, Enj. She’s Cosette. She’ll deal with ‘Ferre and I smelling like sex if we want to.”

 

Enjolras raises an eyebrow, and Courfeyrac seems to reconsider his stance. 

 

“All that said, Combeferre and I will go and take a shower. This was our choice, prompted by nothing.” He takes Combeferre hand and leads him down the short hall, making intense eye contact with Enjolras the whole time.

 

If he is serious about changing the world, Enjolras thinks, he might need to start my surrounding himself with people who are serious. But that would mean ridding himself of all of his friends, so he give into defeat in this case.

 

He’s been friends with Courf and Ferre for fifteen years. There’s no getting rid of them now. 

 

~

 

It’s not healthy, he knows, the way he looks at Enjolras. It’s not fair to him. But he sees in him the light that has left the world, his golden hair and the glimmer in his eye as he pleads with his peers to create change too similar to the creature called hope that crawled out of Pandora’s Box, soothing the wounds evil created.

 

It’s isn’t fair of R to put him up on that pedestal. It’s certainly not healthy to gaze up at that pedestal from the depths to which he has flung himself. 

 

Grantaire is trying to climb out of the self deprecating hole he has resigned himself to, but Enjolras makes that climb seem impossible. 

 

He has passion still, he has the energy to be angry at injustice, and he inspires that in others. 

 

For the first time in a long time, Grantaire wants to draw. He wants to capture the passion he sees on the page, if only to remind himself of what it is to feel like that. 

 

Just like that, Enjolras becomes his muse, as Grantaire draws him for the first time with one of the pens from behind the bar on a napkin. It’s misshapen, it’s ugly, but it’s a start, it leaves him somewhere to go. 

 

It’s the first time he’s drawn for six months. 

 

Maybe that’s healthy.

 

Enjolras  _ did  _ tell him to take up a hobby. 

 

~

4.

 

"Alright,” Combeferre says, and Enjolras picks his head up off the table and looks at his friend, only to find him talking to Courfeyrac, “tattoo wise, which is better; funky Mozart wearing ray bans, roller skates, and holding a boombox,  _ or _ insanely ripped Jesus?"

 

He's not drunk, but he is exhausted, so he puts his head back on the table and tries to tune the rest of the conversation, to no avail. "Neither, if you don’t wanna get curb stomped." Courfeyrac responds, dryly.

 

“That was not the question,  _ Ma Chere _ , it was which is  _ better _ ?” Combeferre counters with a grin.

 

Coufeyrac sighs, looks up from his drink and looks Ferre dead in the eye. “Funky Mozart.” He downs his drink in one. 

 

Enjolras tries ( _ really _ tries) not to roll his eyes. The two have had similar conversations before, and the most disappointing part of it is that they often not only commit to whatever was chosen, they tend to both get the chosen tattoo. 

 

Combeferre could have been spared the pineapple made to look like Mr Potato Head, and Courf, had he been a little more level headed, might not permanently have ‘Live Laugh Love’ in Wingdings tattooed on his right arm. There are many more that Enjolras knows he doesn’t know about.

 

“I need a second opinion - a sober one.” ‘Ferre says, so Enjolras leans towards him, ready to be that sober second opinion, when Combeferre stands up on his stool and yells, “Hey! Grantaire! Funky Mozart or Ripped Jesus?”

 

“Funky Mozart, obviously!” Grantaire yells, from where he's sitting by Joly. “Don't be a dick!”

 

Enjolras looks over and Grantaire gives him a little wave. Enjolras wanders over with his drink, and sits down in the empty seat beside him. “You had no frame of reference.” He says, instead of  _ hello _ or something along those lines.

 

Grantaire shrugs. “Don't need one. I already know the outcome will be hilarious.”

 

“You're a bad influence.” Enjolras tells him, but Grantaire merely nods, sagely.

 

“So I'm told.”

 

“Speaking of bad influences.” Musichetta butts in with a smile, and Grantaire gestures for her to continue, taking a sip of his Shirley Temple. Enjolras just knows it's going to be bad when she ducks underneath the bar, rummages through a few things and emerges with a triumphant  _ aha!  _ and a slim bottle in her hands.

 

"I got this new stuff in,” Musichetta leans over the counter, grinning, overly long fingernails tapping on the wood top of the bar. Grantaire leans in as well, and Enjolras takes a nervous sip of his drink, not sure where this is going. “It's called Unicorn Vodka. It's blue and sparkly, but when you put lime juice in it, it goes purple."

 

"Ooh, that sounds poisonous enough to kill me after one shot." Grantaire exclaims, giving the bottle a delighted look.

 

"I think it is." She replies, eyes shining with delight, smile growing bigger.

 

He sits back on his stool. Wrapping his fingers, resolutely, around his glass of non-alcoholic liquid. "Ah, that's the dream." He says, wistfully.

 

" _ That's _ the dream?" Enjolras echoes, in an incredulous tone. Musichetta nods along with him, though her smile is amused, and raises an eyebrow.

 

Grantaire pouts like the last thing he needs is a lecture on his attitude about death and rolls his eyes. Enjolras has heard that the last couple of times he made jokes like that he got into long conversations with friends concerned for his well-being. He obviously doesn’t want Musichetta or Enjolras to be two more names on that list. He clears his throat and counters: "Why would you tell a recovering alcoholic about that, anyhow?"

 

"Force of habit?" She tries, grimacing just a little.

 

He snorts. "Not good enough."

 

She shrugs, and Bossuet leans in to peck her cheek, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, “I’ll take that excuse,” He says.

 

" _ You're _ biased." Grantaire tells him.

 

“And what of it?” Bossuet asks. He turns back to Musichetta and wiggles his eyebrows. “How much for a few shots of it?”

 

“We can negotiate price later.” She replies, smirking, and Grantaire makes a gagging sound.

 

“You're all so sweet, I can't stand it.” He cackles when Bossuet frowns at him. Enjolras shoves his shoulder, rolling his eyes.

 

“Let them be gross, it's nicer.” He says, in a mock-commanding voice.

 

Grantaire plants a hand against his heart and gapes, “But they're gross in front of me all the time!”

 

“The perils of living with sickeningly sweet couples.” Enjolras comments, dryly.

 

“‘Ferre and Courf are hardly sweet.” Grantaire shakes his head and finishes off his mocktail. “I don't know how you stand them.”

 

“They're an acquired taste,” he replies, easily, “much like yourself.”

 

“Are you calling me sickeningly sweet?” He grins, turning to face Enjolras fully. “Because I believe that falls under the category of flirting, O Fearless Leader.”

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes, hoping the lights are dim enough that his companion doesn't notice his blush. “I'm calling you all sorts of things, but sickeningly sweet is not one of them.”

 

This conversation is unfortunately interrupted by an incredibly inebriated Marius stumbling up to them both with a pale face, rambling about how Cosette’s father is secretly a convict on the run who once went by the pseudonym “Monsieur Madeleine”.

 

“He was calling himself Mister Muffin!” Marius cries and Enjolras nods, understandingly, while rolling his eyes at Grantaire, over Marius’s head.

 

“That's great, let's get you home, yeah?”

 

~

  
"Why do you look hungover?" Éponine asks, barging in with a shopping bag slung over her shoulder.

 

"I'm not hungover,” Grantaire grumbles at her, closing the door and following her into the kitchen where Musichetta is preparing coffee for herself and her waking partners, back in Joly’s room. “I'm sleep deprived."

 

"It's your own fault." Musichetta tells him, frankly.

 

"I never said it wasn't." He says, holding up his hands in mock-surrender.

 

"He stayed up watching shitty movies on Netflix.” ‘Chetta tells Éponine as Éponine unloads all the ingredients to make her stellar, mythical triple chocolate chip cookies. “ _ I _ drew the line at  _ ZomBeavers _ , and went to bed."

 

" _ ZomBeavers _ was a tacky masterpiece.” Grantaire says, knowing how crazy he sounds. He turns to Éponine. “A bear turns into a ZomBeaver at one point - it has the tail and the teeth and everything."

 

"I'm judging so hard, right now." She comments with a small, judging smile.

 

"Hey, if I'm not allowed to be drunk how am I supposed to make amusing, drunk mistakes that turn into entertaining anecdotes to tell at parties?" He asks no one in particular. ‘Chetta heads back to Joly’s room with three mugs balanced in her two hands and Éponine goes about preparing her cookie dough.

 

She does this sometimes, just turns up to do things, utilising his wasted space and keeping him company when she knows he's been lonely. Sometimes Grantaire thinks that's why she does it, but the one time he mentioned the theory to her, Éponine just grinned and said, “Don't flatter yourself. I'm just here for your beautiful oven.”

 

It's only later, when she's washing up her supplies to go back in her reusable shopping bag, and her cookies are cooling on the rack that he finally gets up the nerve to say, “Do you think Enjolras would say yes if I asked him out?”

 

She pauses and looks over her shoulder with narrowed eyes. “How the fuck should I know?”

 

“You were close with him for a while, right?” Grantaire probes. He's pretty sure he's got it wrong, by now, because he didn't really pay attention to whatever guy she was talking about so much last semester, very preoccupied with drinking.

 

“Wrong. I was close with  _ Marius _ , before he fell in love with Cosette and I set the bar higher.” Really? Marius? That actually surprises him, even as it rings a bell. Maybe it's just because Grantaire actually knows Marius now, that it surprises him. Éponine shrugs. “I don't really know Enjolras.”

 

Grantaire groans, and presses his forehead against the cool surface of the breakfast bar, “Then I'm totally screwed.”

 

“How so?” She hums.

 

“I'm like, desperately, gothic heroine style in love with him.” He admits, trying not to outwardly sound as fucking sad as he probably seems.

 

Éponine stops cleaning the bowl in her hands, and just plants her hands on the bottom of the sink, looking straight ahead at the tasteful red splashback. The look on her face says she is reining in her exasperation. "Do you ever hear a sentence that makes you want to vomit up your soul?" She asks, and her tone suggests this is a rhetorical question.

 

In any case, Grantaire finds himself replying, "Yes."

 

She turns, pulling her hands from the sink and setting her soap sud covered hands on her hips. "That's what you just said did to me."

 

“Seriously?” He asks, even though he really didn't expect anything less. “My gothic heroine comment made you want to vomit up your soul?”

 

“Sappy shit makes my skin crawl, of course that comment did it.” Éponine replies, nonchalantly turning back to her washing up. He never understands why she doesn't use they're dishwasher when she's over. Then again, the last time she did, Bossuet roped her into unloading all of the dishes, so maybe she's just avoiding the extra dishes responsibility.

 

“I could get way more sappy.” He warns her.

 

“You will face my wrath and future without cookies if you do.” She retorts.

 

Grantaire vaults himself over the breakfast bar, proclaiming loudly, “You can't take them from me!” Against his better judgement and Éponine’s warnings, he stuffs a cookie in his mouth and almost immediately regrets it when the burning begins.

  
~

 

5.

 

"There's nothing more uncomfortable than making a horse meat joke that no one laughs at."

 

Of all the things Grantaire could greet him with at four in the morning, a comment about horse meat jokes is not what Enjolras is expecting. Neither is the Tupperware container of cookies being thrust into his hands. He pushes past Enjolras into the apartment, without the apparent manners of a vampire, and makes his way into the living room, still messy from the take out Ferre ordered the night before. He drops his messenger bag on the floor by the couch, and the thud that follows is so disturbingly heavy that Enjolras winces.

 

“Good morning to you too,” Enjolras replies, tiredly. He follows Grantaire’s manic pace through the messy living room and into the kitchen. “Can I ask how you know where I live?”

 

“Combeferre and Courfeyrac made it very clear that their bed was free when they shoved me out of mine, earlier.” Grantaire responds, and begins to dig through the cabinets in search of something.

 

“Courf and Ferre finished off our liqueur supply before they left.” Enjolras informs him, stiffly. It seems just like his roommates to kick someone out of their own bed, in a drunken quest for sleep. “You won't be finding anything here.”

 

Grantaire waves an absent-minded hand and turns with a mug shaped like a panda bear in his hand, a triumphant look on his face. “Not a relapse, unfortunately.”

 

“How is that unfortunate?” His eyebrows furrow further, and, at this, Grantaire only winks.

 

“I've been told I'm much more charming smashed than sober.” He says, with a sly smile.

 

Enjolras rubs his eyes, hoping sleep hasn't gone too far, because there's no way he can bear witness to whatever this event will be. “Who told you that?” He asks, half out of curiosity, half out of offence on Grantaire’s behalf.

 

“Details, details.” More hand-waving, as he pushes past, going for the dormant coffee machine. Enjolras wonders if he'll always be bewildered in Grantaire’s presence. “The point is, I'm making coffee, and then I'm going to sit on your couch and write my rationale for my art course.”

 

“Why couldn't you do that at your house?” He questions, less annoyed, more bewildered. Grantaire sets his mug on the coffee maker and presses a button with much more certainty than a first time visitor should have about Enjolras’s battered up, years old coffee maker.

 

“Thin walls.” He taps the side of his nose, knowingly, and Enjolras shudders at how he relates. “Also, Jehan says you make one hell of an editor.”

 

“I'm not staying up with you.” He says, immediately.

 

“I didn't ask you too. You don't need to witness my buzzed, manic state.” Grantaire shrugs and makes himself at home in the couch. There's a pause and he looks up at Enjolras with a confused look on his face. He's probably wondering what Enjolras is still doing there. “Go back to bed, I'll be quiet as a mouse.”

 

The way he says this is so earnest and calm in the middle of this four am nonsense, that Enjolras does pause. Grantaire doesn't seem to notice that he's affected Enjolras in any way, and goes about setting up his laptop as the coffee machine sputters to life in the kitchen.

 

When Grantaire gets up to go and get his coffee, pushing past Enjolras, he finally shakes himself out of the moment.

 

“Aren’t you going to bed?” Grantaire asks, watching Enjolras over the top of the coffee machine.

 

“It's probably too late for me to go back to sleep.” Even Enjolras can tell he's just making excuses. “I'll stay up with you.”

 

“You don't need to do that,” more pushing past - God, he's so pushy - and stomping across the carpet, reaching into his messenger bag to pull out a laptop. The thudding from earlier makes him shudder again. “I'm more than fine on my own.”

 

“No, I'll stay.” He sits down next to Grantaire and Grantaire watches him, uncertainly. “Besides, one hell of an editor, right?”

 

He tries not to notice Grantaire grinning, because he tries to hide it with a fake cough and a hand at his mouth. He stays, even when he feels like he's going to fall asleep, even when Grantaire gets frustrated about something and smashes his forehead into the keyboard, a bit.

 

It gets lighter out. He wonders how Courfeyrac and Combeferre are sleeping off their hangovers. And then decides  _ not _ to think about that, because he knows what they can get up to, given some time alone and an empty room. 

 

Instead, he starts reading over Grantaire shoulder, and offering suggestions, a comma here, some clarification there. And praise, plenty of that, because despite all that Grantaire has said about not being cut out for academic writing, he’s  _ good _ . He writes like Enjolras knows he draws. 

 

There’s a little too much purple prose, but it’s real, and seems to cut to the heart of what he knows others want to see in it. It’s direct, and not entirely to the point, which Enjolras thinks is probably fine for a rationale in Art. Being a bit flowery with one’s writing will never be a sin. 

 

In the end, it only takes them two and a half hours to come up with something that Grantaire is confident enough to submit. 

 

And finally, as Grantaire breathes a sigh of relief, and lets his shoulders relax, Enjolras realises just how close his is, just how close he is to sitting in Grantaire lap, their cheeks only inches apart. 

 

And the apartment is suddenly far too warm, and the world has sort of closed in around them, and they’re the only people who are real to him, making him feel both claustrophobic in his own body, and entirely too active. He clears his throat and looks back at the computer screen.

 

“This is good. I can do a final edit for you, before you leave and then-”

 

But when he turns to look at Grantaire, he's staring at him. He breaks off, cut short, frozen, wondering just why Grantaire is holding his breath like that. The wondering snaps in half leaving him just in silence, a moment later, when Grantaire does breathe out, and a stray curl hanging in Enjolras’s eyes gets disturbed.

 

He has no idea how long they sit there like that, waiting for a sign, a moment that's perfect, or maybe just a word to break the silence and wake them from this underwater feeling. Enjolras nearly flinches back when he feels cold fingers just brushing against the curl of his jawbone, and when he doesn't, something like relief and like warmth spreads in Grantaire’s eyes. It's a long moment.

 

It finishes just as suddenly as it began when he suddenly closes the distance, pressing his lips to Grantaire’s cracked and coffee flavoured own, a gasp caught between them in Grantaire’s surprise. It's almost a bad angle, almost bad and ruined completely, but then Grantaire pushes closer and pushes Enjolras off his knees, back down onto the couch cushion, no longer just his fingers on Enjolras’s jaw, now his whole hand.

 

Grantaire breathes heavily when they pull apart, and even as Enjolras both dreads and anticipates his reaction, Grantaire doesn't open his eyes. He just rests his forehead against Enjolras’s and tries to catch his breath back.

 

“Um,” Grantaire says, and then laughs a bit, his smile lines straining. He taps Enjolras’s chest, right below his collarbone, straight down the middle, and laughs again. “I'm pretty sure I'm about to pass out.”

 

“Yeah,” Enjolras responds, and hates how breathless he sounds. He pushes up, gently, and Grantaire goes so easily, getting back to his feet. “C’mon, I'll set you up and you can take a nap before you hit the road.”

 

“Won't even treat me to a fancy breakfast?” Grantaire asks, douchey bravado returning as his breath does the same.

 

“Bagels and coffee is as fancy as I get - now, up.” Enjolras hesitates to hold his hands out to him to help him up off the couch, but he does it anyway. “The bed is calling your name.”

 

Grantaire follows where Enjolras leads, into his own room instead of Courf and Ferre’s, because no matter what permission they gave, it doesn't sit quite right to let Grantaire sleep in their room.

 

He sits him down on the edge of his bed and Grantaire immediately flops down on it, looking to all the world like he wouldn't want to be anywhere else. “Okay, well, sleep, then. I'll wake you up in a couple of hours.”

 

“Stay?”

 

There's really nothing he can say to that, still too addled to think clearly, still half inside a dream. So he does, he stays, and maybe that's a mistake, but it's hardly his fault.

 

(And if it's a mistake then he doesn't really get to be upset when Grantaire’s gone when he wakes up.)

 

~

 

Fuck. And again, a deeper and more emphatic  _ fuck _ . 

 

He was trying, really trying not to be  _ that guy _ who got stuck on someone unattainable. And now he’s crossed a line, and burned about a thousand bridges, and then took a nap on them as they were burning. 

 

There’s no coming back from waking up sprawled across the chest of the man you’ve had a deep crush on for six months. There’s no coming back from discovering, as you’re leaving in a panic, that your clothes smell like him. There’s no coming back from the memory of his soft lips on Grantaire’s. 

 

_ Merde _ , he burned so many bridges in the early hours of this morning. And the worst part is, in his hurry to disappear, he left his personal use sketchbook at Enjolras’ place. 

 

Where Enjolras can look at it. And see all of the stupid drawings of him, interspersed with far fewer of the L’Amis. And fucking realise that not only was what they did a mistake, it’s was a far bigger mistake for him because  _ fuck _ what Grantaire’s been doing is creepy. 

 

He feels a little bit ill, and a lot like he needs a drink. Or eight. 

 

So he does the only thing he can, and arrives unannounced back home, and demands Joly entertain him. 

 

Out of sight, out of mind, right? 

 

~

 

"Gaze upon this baby donkey and  _ weep _ , Jehan." Joly says, holding his phone up to Jehan over the pizzeria counter. When Joly said they were going to get pizza, Grantaire thought that meant  _ pizza _ and not  _ teasing Jehan until his lunch break _ .

 

"Hey, no fair.” Montparnasse butts in, scowling at them. “You can't break Jehan at work, he's our most valuable employee."

 

“You're just jealous because you don't have this picture of a baby donkey to look at twenty-four seven.” Joly retorts, but Montparnasse still pushes his phone away, gently elbowing Jehan in the side.

 

Grantaire has no idea what's going on with those two, and actually doesn't want to, for once in his nosy-bitch life. Still, there's no point in hanging around here if he doesn't get to join in the fun.

 

He pulls up a photo on his phone and shows the screen to Jehan, "A contender approaches; a piglet with no hind legs, named Chris P. Bacon."

 

Jehan makes a squeaking noise and covers his mouth with his hands. Montparnasse groans and hits himself on the forehead with his palm.

 

"Shit, you officially broke Jehan." Joly says, delighted.

 

Their pizza gets handed over and they eat it at one of the counters by the window, waiting for Montparnasse to let Jehan off to hang out with them.

 

“So,” Joly says through a mouthful of supreme with extra peppers, “I know you probably want to talk about it, but what happened between four and eight this morning that freaked you out so much?”

 

Grantaire shakes his head, taking a long sip from his Coke can. “I promise you, you don't want to know.”

 

“Can't be any worse than what Combeferre and Courfeyrac did in your room, last night.” His roommate replies, matter-of-factly.

 

“Ooh, that  _ I _ don't want to know about.” Grantaire agrees, and goes for another slice of pizza, picking the mushrooms off, even though he insisted Joly keep them on the order.

 

Joly drinks some Sprite through his straw and then says, “Did you actually take them up on sleeping at their place?”

 

“What else was I supposed to do?” Grantaire counters, uneasily. “I had an assessment piece due, I wasn't going to try and do it at a bus stop.”

 

“So, this has something to do with Enjolras?” He glares at Joly following this probing question.

 

“Who said  _ anything _ about Enjolras?” He asks, trying to sound cool, and nonchalant, like Enjolras isn't the reason he raced home in a panic and begged Joly to take him somewhere that wasn't there.

 

“No one, but the way you just reacted says that this  _ totally _ has something to do with Enjolras.”

 

Grantaire rolls his eyes and takes another bite of his supreme pizza, “Let's stop talking about the Fearless Leader, and talk about where the fuck all my  _ cranberry juice _ went.”

 

“I can't speak for everyone who lives in my house, but Bossuet definitely had  _ nothing _ to do with it.” Joly says, smiling.

 

He narrows his eyes at him. “Right, okay, your boyfriend is the first on my cranberry juice hit list.”

 

“Why is Bossuet on Grantaire’s hit list?” Jehan asks, sidling up to their table with a Subway foot-long in hand and his uniform baseball cap in the other.

 

“More importantly, why are you eating  _ Subway _ for lunch?” Grantaire butts in, before Joly can unload whatever mad theory he has about what happened between Grantaire and Enjolras. “Aren't they, like, the pizzeria’s sworn enemy?”

 

“They are?” Jehan gives the Subway across the road a sheepish look. “They've never given me any grief over it.”

 

“They probably fell for your charm, Jehan, dear.” Joly says, patting Jehan’s free hand. “I wouldn't worry.”

 

“Just don't let Montparnasse see you eating it.” Grantaire warns, mockingly, as Jehan unwraps his sandwich, looking worriedly between his two friends.

 

“He wouldn't be angry.” Jehan protests, through a mouthful of meatball sub.

 

“He's a scary dude.” Joly agrees over Jehan’s head, casting a look over his shoulder, as though he expects Montparnasse to be standing right there, as he spoke.

 

“He's nice.” Jehan insists, putting a hand on Joly’s wrist.

 

Grantaire nods, not entirely convincingly. “Sure.”

 

~

 

+1

 

He starts bringing his school sketchbook and his good pencils to meetings, and sits at the back of the room, lest any of their friends catch on to what he’s doing. He’s truly not trying to be creepy. There’s just something entrancing about the way that Enjolras clenches his fists as he recites heartbreaking statistics, and the way his lips curl at the suggestion that merely biting may bring the change he believes they need. 

 

The fury in his eyes when he tells a new comer: “I’d rather die in protest than see my people suffer one more year.”

 

And, truly, after definitely finding Grantaire’s personal sketchbook at his place, there nothing he can do that would be creepier to Enjolras. A couple more sketches may make him feel guilty, but it’s not like he hasn’t already crossed that line.

 

There’s just something about him that makes Grantaire stop and consider. 

 

He puts it all on paper. His Adonis. His Apollo, bright as the sun. 

 

“What’cha doin’?”

 

Fucking Gavroche, the sneaky little gremlin. 

 

All too guiltily, he snaps his sketchbook closed, and looks up at him. He tried to shrug nonchalantly, thinking of something the cynic he was (is) (was) might day. “Someone has to document this train crash.”

 

Gavroche presses his lips together and raises his brows in a way that clearly communicates disbelief. “First, Enjolras absolutely destroying that centrist was magnificent, hardly a train crash. Second, try not to come up with excuses on the spot. Come up with a convincing alibi before committing the crime, it sounds more convincing.”

 

Grantaire can do nothing but blink at that. 

 

Gavroche leans across the table, “this is where you ask me if I’m accusing you of a crime, and I accuse you of having a fatally cringey crush on Blondie.” He jerks his head at Enjolras. “Then  _ you _ sigh and ask yourself what you expected of the child of career criminals.”

 

Grantaire shakes his head, “You have too much sass inside of you for your own good, Gavroche.”

 

The boy just grins. “‘Ponine says we’re coming over after the meeting to make brownies,” 

 

“That’s the first I’ve heard of it,” 

 

Gavroche nods, “Yeah, that’s the point. Surprise brownies. ‘Ponine says you’ve seemed sad recently.” 

 

It’s weird. He doesn’t feel like he’s been sadder. Maybe it’s just because he’s more focused on his art now, or maybe it’s because he’s still adjusting to not drinking. But he can’t see why Éponine might think he’s sad.

 

“Says you’re pining, and she’s not wrong. Was that page just all hair?” 

 

Grantaire blushes. “Shut up. I’m experimenting.” 

 

“If you say so. But I’d put that away because look who’s coming over.” 

 

Sure enough, Enjolras is making a beeline to him, and there is no non-guilty way to stuff a sketchbook into a satchel. Gavroches just grins, and doesn’t help. The likeness to Éponine is uncanny in this moment. 

 

Grantaire looks up from his bag which is just about refusing to have anything put into it, despite being largely empty, into the far too blue eyes of his Apollo. 

 

“Hi,” Enjolras says and smiles a little. All over again he's in Enjolras’s messy living room, trying to write about his experience as an artist and failing miserably when his head is jumbled up to think at all. All over again Enjolras is leaning over him, Grantaire’s breath disturbing his blonde curls, eyes on the laptop and not on him like he wishes they were.

 

All over again they're too close, all of a sudden he can't breathe, every particle in his body is screaming at him to get closer or get out and not stay stuck in between.

 

“Hi,” he breathes in a way he hopes isn't as telling as he's already sure it is, as Gavroche's smirk is telling him it is. He hopes he doesn't have visible stars in his eyes, he hopes Enjolras can't see every second of the last two weeks replaying in his head when he thought maybe Enjolras thought it was a mistake.

 

_ Maybe Enjolras thought it was a mistake _ . Grantaire clears his throat, looking away. “Uh, hey, um, good speech or whatever.”

 

“Thanks,” Enjolras nods, and looks over at Gavroche who's still grinning at them both. Luckily, Courfeyrac chooses this moment to swoop in, grabbing Gavroche around the waist and spinning him around, proceeding carrying him off to the other side of the room. Gavroche struggles to get out of his hold to no avail. “I uh, I wanted to talk to you.”

 

_ That _ doesn't bode well, even Grantaire can tell. He tries not to make it obvious how much he's panicking internally. “Sure.” 

 

It’s like the air suddenly becomes solid, it weighs on Grantaire, and gets stuck in his lungs, and the whole world slows down while it happens. Enjolras takes his seat next to Grantaire, and looks at him with clear blue eyes, eyes that either speak of pity, or of a letdown. 

 

He’s going to tell him they made a mistake. 

 

He’s going to ask him not to tell anybody. 

 

He’s going to explain why they wouldn’t be good together. 

 

He’s going to explain why he doesn’t like Grantaire like that. 

 

And Grantaire has to be fine with that. Because what kind of person would he be if he wasn’t. He has to go through his grief over this thing between them that never was ( _ almost _ was) in this moment, and be fine with it when Enjolras says it. 

 

He lets go of it all, and resolves to cry about it later. He forces a smile, and waits for Enjolras to just say what he needs to. 

 

But there’s just silence, as they look at each other over the table, Enjolras looking like he’s trying to find the right words and failing. It’s strange, because to his knowledge, Enjolras has never  _ not _ come prepared for a public smackdown.  

 

“I brought this,” Enjolras finally says, and slides a familiar ragged book across the table towards him. His sketchbook. “I figured you’d probably want it back.” 

 

Grantaire braces himself for the next bit, where he asks, accusingly, why the fuck he’s drawing Enjolras. It doesn’t come. So Grantaire just nods, and murmurs a quiet: “Thank you.” 

 

The silence is deafening, and Grantaire is waiting to be blown up at, to be asked quietly to leave and never come back. Instead, Enjolras looks away, looking a little embarrassed. “I couldn’t help but notice… the drawings in there-“

 

“I know, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have, I should have asked you, I just got carried away. It won’t happen again.” Grantaire rambles.

 

Enjolras looks shocked, taken aback even. “I was going to say that they’re very good. And I was going to ask you to draw up some protest signs and pamphlets, if you’re not too busy. But if you’re so intent on not doing art anymore, I’d suggest starting by not majoring in it.” He raises an eyebrow, showing this seems to be some kind of joke. 

 

“I-“ 

 

“Look, I’m happy to pay whatever you want, I just think, well, art is supposed to evoke emotions, and what better way to draw people to our next rally?” Enj looks sheepish.

 

“I’d be happy to, honestly. I’ve been looking for a good project, but- uh, I thought you were going to say something about all of the, um, drawings of you.” Grantaire blushes, and wishes that he was anywhere else.

 

Enjolras looks shocked. “Well, I was flattered-“

 

“But?”

 

Enjolras laughs, “I was going to leave it at being flattered. You don’t think very highly of yourself, do you?”

 

Grantaire is more confused than relieved. “I don’t, do I?”

 

Enjolras gives him a kind smile. “Your drawings, they’re amazing, honestly. I don’t know much about art, but, it made me feel things. And, if, you know, I make you draw like that, I’m not going to ask you to stop.”

 

Grantaire is breathless, confused, and so, so warm with the way Enjolras’ eyes have settled on him. He wants to kiss his Apollo senseless, but he still doesn’t know if Enjolras wants that. 

 

“Grantaire- R- I-“ he’s never heard Enjolras stumble over his words like this. His voice is quieter, gentler,  _ he  _ sounds breathless. “I can’t believe you see  _ me  _ that way.  _ R _ , I can’t- you draw me like I’m beautiful, and I just-“

 

“You  _ are _ ,” Grantaire whispers. “Fuck, even if you didn’t look like an actual Greek god, the way you make others  _ feel _ \- Enjolras, you are art in motion. You’re getting people out there, making change! That’s fucking beautiful.”

 

Enjolras chuckles. “You’re not sounding much like a cynic, right now.”

 

Grantaire shakes his head. “I’m afraid you’ve made a believer of me. I may not agree with everything you say, but by god, you try for others. It’s better than what I do.”

 

Enjolras shakes his head. “Every leader needs a cynic to keep them in check. Without you, I’d be running wild.”

 

The world has once again narrowed down to only them, and the noise of the Musain becomes muffled. 

 

“I really liked kissing you.” He says, feeling braver than ever before.

 

Enjolras frowns. “Then why did you leave?”

 

“I thought you’d made a mistake, I mean, look at me!” 

 

“R,” Enj laughs, hands landing on Grantaire’s shoulders, “ _ I kissed you _ ,” Enjolras’ hands find Grantaire's jaw, and his thumb swipes his cheek, and,  _ God, _ Grantaire is in love.

 

“I don’t regret kissing you, but I’ll be honest, I was really disappointed to wake up alone. You may not think much of yourself, R, but you mean so much to me. I don’t know when that became true, but it is. Painfully so. And R?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I really want to kiss you again,” Enj whispers, and Grantaire can’t help but gasp a little. “Would you like that?”

 

Grantaire can’t trust his voice, so he just nods. Enjolras smiles, and it’s so fucking beautiful, it’s hard to look at. The long fingers cradling his jaw pull him forward a little, and Enj is right there, so Grantaire leans forward a little, and  _ there _ .

 

Their lips meet, Enjolras’ soft, Grantaire's not so, and it’s just as good as it was two weeks ago. Grantaire just about melts into Enjolras, who, despite looking like he was chiseled from marble, is soft and warm, and holding him feels like coming home. It’s incredible. 

 

Something had to break the moment. 

 

“Fucking  _ finally _ !” ‘Ponine’s voice is instantly recognisable, and too close for Grantaire’s liking, so, he breaks the kiss to find all of their friends staring at them in some semblance of shock or delight. Enjolras blushes a little and buries his head in Grantaire’s collarbone. 

 

It's something close to good.

 

~

 

There's a phone ringing somewhere nearby, and that's what wakes him up. Enjolras, blearily, half-asleep and unaware of his surroundings, sits up and hits his head on the underside of Joly’s beloved grand piano.

 

“Fuck -  _ ow _ !” He curses, leaning back on an elbow, free hand pressed to his temple, glaring up through glazed eyes at the underbelly of the piano. It takes him a moment to realise where he is.

 

Enjolras looks beside him and - ah, yes, there's Grantaire, sleeping on his stomach, face mashed against a purple throw pillow from the couch. There's a big crocheted blanket over the lower part of their bodies, and their shirts are discarded in the rug, only inches away. The only question is why are they under the piano?

 

His phone is still ringing, sitting discarded in his jacket by the door, and Enjolras commando crawls out from under the piano, stumbling to the coat rack to pick up the call.

 

“Hello?” He groans, turning around to survey the damage on the living room. It's pretty tame, actually, but there is proof of a party there.

 

“Dude, where the fuck are you?” Asks Courfeyrac’s voice on the other end of the line.

 

Enjolras furrows his eyebrows. They were all around at Joly and Grantaire’s for the night. They watched stupid movies, Bahorel tried to make s’mores on the balcony, Musichetta boasted about her short career in baton juggling, and how she could juggle more flaming batons than Marius any day,  _ try me bitch _ .

 

“Am I  _ supposed _ to be somewhere?” He asks, confused. For someone who hasn't tasted alcohol since his cousin’s wedding three years ago, he feels almost hungover.

 

“I've been texting you for an hour. I just remembered what phones were invented for.” Courfeyrac sounds amusedly frustrated. “We’re all over at Cosette’s place, for brunch, with her dad.”

 

“Her  _ dad _ ?” The fabled Mister Muffin? God, this morning is taking a turn for the worst. He needs coffee, and a strong one, at that.

 

“Did you get  _ that _ out of it last night?” Upon Enjolras’s awkward silence, Courfeyrac sighs and explains; “Musichetta challenged Marius to a duel, we all went down to the park, there was a lot of fire juggling, until Marius dropped a baton on himself, got second degree burns, went to hospital, and then eloped with Cosette.”

 

Enjolras nearly drops his phone. “He  _ what _ ?”

 

“Well, not exactly eloped,” Courfeyrac amends, and then shushes someone's giggling in the background, “but they  _ definitely _ got engaged and then got arrested for speeding on their way to the airport.”

 

“Oh my god.” Enjolras stifles his giggles. “Is her dad  _ pissed _ ?”

 

“He hasn't said anything yet, but Cosette says we should all be here, since he requested it.”

 

“Her dad requested  _ all of us _ over for brunch so he could yell at her about drunkenly becoming engaged to Marius Pontmercy?”

 

“And speeding, don't forget the speeding!” Cries Combeferre’s far-off voice, immediately shushed by Courfeyrac.

 

“Can I say no?” Enjolras asks, casting his gaze over Grantaire’s still form, under the piano, and how nice it would be to spend time with him, alone, like this.

 

“They won't start until you're both here,” Courfeyrac responds, a little sympathy in his voice, but not as much as there would be if Enjolras had been hungover, as he's sure the rest of them are. “So get a move on, because this is going to be  _ funny as hell _ .”

 

He sighs, “Text me the address.”

 

Enjolras runs over to his discarded clothes and is hopping his way into last night's jeans when Grantaire sits up, smacking his head on the piano - “Fucking - ugh, not  _ again _ .” - and crawling out from under it. “What are you doing?” Grantaire mumbles, rubbing his eyes, and resting against a piano leg.

 

Enjolras nearly trips over a wayward footstool. “Cosette and Marius got engaged and we’ve been invited to her dad's place for brunch while they assess the damage.”

 

This wakes Grantaire up. “What? Oh my god, let me get my clothes, that sounds fucking hilarious.” There's a mad rush for clothes and keys and maybe a little stupid giggly kissing, and then Enjolras texts Courfeyrac  _ on our way _ , to which the response is a picture of Cosette, Marius, and Cosette’s dad through a crack in the door, all in various states of disrepair, staring awkwardly at each other.

 

Enjolras laughs so hard they nearly drive off the road.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. If you liked this fic, please leave us a kudos, and perhaps a comment telling us all about it. You can find us on Tumblr @cake-snake and @nose-coffee respectively. Once again, thanks for reading.


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